Royals’ response to King’s cancer diagnosis shows they’re cut from different cloth – their positivity is what we need
TRADITIONALLY, us Brits really don’t like to make a fuss.
Had we a leg hanging by a thread, inevitably we would sigh and say: “Oh, it’s nothing, just a scratch.”
But no one, NO ONE, is more stoical and stiff-upper-lipped than the upper classes.
Boarding school, the cane, bracing ten-mile yomps in bleak mid-February, tellings-off from the nanny (the paid, live-in one, not Nan), corduroy (very hot in summer), Grade II-listed castles (very could in winter) and obscene humiliation initiations lend, in many ways, to a hardy character.
Which is precisely why, if anyone is able to handle a potentially debilitating cancer diagnosis, it’s the Royal Family.
Although in recent times, even royalty has been dabbling, alarmingly, in “feelings”.
Cut from different cloth
Prince Harry loves to talk about his mental health.
He’s a huge advocate of therapy and generally seems of the belief that a problem shared is, indeed, a problem halved.
But his father, King Charles, is cut from a different cloth.
He has, to the best of our knowledge, no plans to sit down with Josie Gibson and Rylan Clark on the This Morning sofa to discuss his “cancer journey”.
And, right now, never should we be more grateful.
Over the weekend he was pictured waving to his subjects while smiling beside an elegant-looking Camilla.
They both had their game faces on.
No hint, then, of the King’s undoubted inner turmoil, while the exact prognosis no one except he and his immediate family and medical team know.
Sure, Gordonstoun-educated Charles has led a life of unimaginable privilege.
But cancer goes easy on no one.
Her evil is indiscriminate and any treatment plan — chemotherapy for Charles hasn’t been publicly confirmed — will not be administered through a gold-plated drip for the King.
Charles doesn’t want sympathy, or a pity party, and most certainly doesn’t want to burden the nation with his private battle.
Instead, on Saturday night he thanked the public for their support and is quietly taking himself away to, hopefully, beat this awful disease.
The monarch’s transparency with this illness will also save countless lives.
Men, especially, are more likely now to get themselves checked.
Little exemplifies the Royal Family’s cheery pluck more than the Queen did last week.
Aged 76, she made a six-hour round trip by car after bad weather grounded her planned helicopter flight.
Saving countless lives
She didn’t want to let down a charity.
Dauntlessly battling a pesky umbrella against driving rain, as photographers tried to get their front-page photograph, she re-assured crowds that everything was absolutely fine.
“He is doing extremely well under the circumstances,” she said with a smile, upper lip not once wobbling.
“He is very touched by all of the letters and messages the public has been sending.
“That’s very cheering.”
Those two words — “very cheering” — couldn’t be any more British.
It’s precisely this bracing positivity we need as we pray for the King long to reign over us.
Knock on Netflix
IF you do one thing this week, and have Netflix, watch One Day.
The 14-part drama series – with varying-length, snappy episodes, so really not a huge commitment – is utterly magical.
Based on the 2009 best-selling novel by Brit author David Nicholls, it’s also nostalgia porn for anyone born in the Seventies or Eighties, with a soundtrack to match.
I also defy anyone, no matter how sociopathic, to get through to the end without shedding a tear/getting a lump in the throat.
You have been warned.
Pet peeves
LAST week I wrote about the state of pet insurance.
My three-year-old miniature dachshund’s monthly premium had rocketed by almost 50 per cent, despite no previous claims.
I’ve now cancelled ManyPets.
And it seems many, many readers are facing similar predicaments.
One wrote to say their beloved dog, licking the floor beneath the oven, was hit by a falling ceramic pot.
The insurance company, a household supermarket chain, refused to pay out on vet bills, insisting the accident was “an act of God”.
A FIREFIGHTER in Brazil fell 20ft from a zipline after it snapped.
He was taking part in a “safety course”.
Which we can all agree was an unmitigated success.
It reminds me of the time my dad, who ran his own catering company, fell off a ladder while on a mandatory six-hour health ’n’ safety course, one instructing him how to use a ladder.
Enraged, he retired shortly after.
Double dunce
AMERICANS are worried 81-year-old Joe Biden is too old for a second presidential term.
So they have a cunning plan to replace him with Donald Trump, a man who turns 78 in June.
Essentially, the USA’s two leading lights are a (kind) man who probably wears nappies while listening to nursery rhymes, or an orange man who once stared directly at the sun during a solar eclipse.
Not a weigh to go
NORDIC airline Finnair has started weighing passengers before they board.
It is, it insists, to improve flight data and so improve airline safety.
Now, if being a few pounds lighter was rewarded in practical terms, like by being allowed another carry-on bag, I’d be all for it.
But, really, when do you ever see a crooked 737 because a bunch of fatties all sat on one side of the aisle?
A few years ago, though, while flying back from New York I was wedged next to a 35st man who had to be given a special extender seatbelt.
His stomach, and thighs and arms, spilled over into my seat.
He inhaled my salted peanuts, demolishing the packet like a vodka shot.
My poor pretzels never stood a chance either.
In the end, cabin crew came over and offered me an alternative, and I spent the next seven, miserable hours sitting in the jump seat.
So yes, in our increasingly fat society, Finnair could be on to something.